


The Two Mr. Fells

by volunteerfd



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Dinner, References to cannibalism (no actual cannibalism)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 01:28:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21719299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/volunteerfd/pseuds/volunteerfd
Summary: Aziraphale's and Hannibal's paths cross in Florence. The two strike up a friendship. And yes, Aziraphale is completely aware that Hannibal is, well, a cannibal...but that won't prevent him from enjoying exquisite company.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 91





	The Two Mr. Fells

The urban elite, by its very definition, was a small group. The point of an artistic subculture was not to share their appreciation of art, beauty, and culture. The point was to feel special, which meant being exclusive, which meant keeping out as many people as they could. But it was also bigger than expected, with people dashing to and from Paris and Berlin and Amsterdam and Prague as the privilege of their wealth afforded them. Fresh new faces coming of age, old ones dying off. It happened--not often, but it did happen--that two points could traverse the social circle and avoid meeting for quite a while.

It so happened that the Florentine art world was being charmed by two Mr. Fells. By a series of happy coincidences, half knew Ezra Fell and the other half knew Roman Fell, as both Mr. Fells were never at the same party or gallery opening at the same time. When one side talked about one Mr. Fell, the other side would talk about the other Mr. Fell and it never occurred to either side that they were talking about two different people.

After all, both Fells had a lot in common. They were fussy aesthetes, as the others were, but their impeccable manners seemed at once careful and easy--something they were born with, not skills they had to learn through traumatization in Socially Darwinian boarding schools by power-hungry prefects and monstrous nuns. They were two of the only people who did not seem to secretly resent the cursed rituals of the upper-class, but to relish in them, and the only two who were gracious enough not to use their mastery against other people.

The Fells spoke of Socrates as if they’d argued with him; Rembrandt as if they’d stood behind him, directing his brush; and Milton as if they’d proofread his work, making little notes in the margins of _Paradise Lost._ They revealed fluency in languages like a magician pulling a rainbow handkerchief from his breast pocket—another and another and another and another, and once you thought they were done violating natural laws, out came another. And another. 

The Fells’ lifetime accumulation of knowledge impressed a group of people who were not easily impressed. In fact, if someone pretended to be anything less than astonished at the Fells’ intellect, that person was openly and unanimously regarded as a transparent poser—no small feat, given that the art world was made up entirely of transparent posers. On occasion, some young upstart tried to correct one of the Fells or catch them in error, and the upstart would be made a fool twice: once upon his disgraceful failure, and again for attempting it in the first place. 

The manners and the intellect, the appreciation for the arts, the conspicuously inconspicuous old money— those were all prerequisites for this high society, although admittedly not in such depth and scope. The trait that elevated the Fells, and matched them with each other, was their love of cuisine. 

They were the most sought-after and feared dinner guests, with palates so refined that, like a princess in a fairy tale, they could detect a single sprig of mint in a vat of stew. Their first bite of food was reserved for thoughtful contemplation as the others seated around the table waited with bated breath for the verdict, an appreciative hum or a gilded compliment. Politeness propelled the Fells to act as consummate conversationalists throughout the duration of a meal, even when the real discussion was happening internally, between their plate, their mouth, and their brain. Their appreciation for food would have reached orgasmic if they had been less well-bred. As they were, though, their manners acted as a tight lid on their boiling pleasure. 

It took a while, but finally the two Mr. Fells wound up in the same party, and the room’s conversation buzzed with realization: Oh, _that’s_ Mr. Fell? No, _that’s—_ how funny! Are they related? The same parents who christened an Ezra could have also christened a Roman, though there was no physical resemblance between the two. Had anyone mentioned Roman’s lithe dancer’s build, it would have cleared up the prolonged mistaken identity earlier.

No one had the humility to tell either Mr. Fell about the misunderstanding, until a man—we’ll call him Roger, though he could have any such name—peeled away from the mass at a party and approached Ezra Fell (true name: Aziraphale).

“Your brother is here! It’s funny, I’ve never seen you two together but now that I think of it, of course you’re related…”

“My brother?” Aziraphale asked. “I don’t have a brother.”

“Your...husband, then?” They all assumed that the gangly ginger who sometimes showed up, feigned artistic ignorance, and then delivered devastatingly erudite criticism was Aziraphale’s husband. Although, come to think of it now, those two had more of the air of a secret affair than a married couple. Roger decided not to probe into Aziraphale’s love life, other than evaluating both of his partners and thinking _Good for him._

“Ah, this must be my spiritual doppelganger,” came a precise, ambiguously accented voice behind him. Aziraphale whirled around. 

“Spiritual doppelganger” could not be further from the truth. From the first glance, Aziraphale knew the depths of the man’s depravity. Aziraphale was an angel, after all, and he could feel the weight of a person’s sins, which, in this case, could crush Aziraphale as flat as a crepe. 

Aziraphale also knew the man’s true identity: Hannibal Lecter. The real Mr. Roman Fell was dead, horribly murdered for his name. What a tricky situation Aziraphale found himself in! He had just wanted to go to a party, have a few glasses of champagne, and mingle. Now, he found himself in a dreadful moral conundrum and, worse, a socially awkward situation.

Aziraphale smiled stiffly. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Fell.”

“And yours, Mr. Fell.” 

Those eyes...glinting like a panther’s. Aziraphale was lucky he was an angel and blessed with a preternatural insight. Otherwise, he’d fall under the spell, just as so many other humans had.

“All this time, there were two Mr. Fells, and no one suspected a thing!” Roger laughed. Aziraphale did not find it funny at all.

“Who knows? There might even be as many as three,” Hannibal drawled as if making a private joke to himself. _Bastard,_ Aziraphale thought. _Scoundrel._

“I’ll let you two connect, then. I’m sure you have a lot to talk about. I think you are the only people who can rival each other’s knowledge of Verdi!” Roger departed with a clasp on each Fell’s shoulder.

“It seems we have much in common, so much so that descriptions of our personalities do not give us away.” 

“Perhaps we have been poorly described,” Aziraphale muttered.

“You seem displeased. Has my own reputation preceded me in some, ah, disreputable way?” 

Of course it hadn’t: Hannibal was so charming and beloved that no one suspected a thing, so Aziraphale couldn’t, either. 

“No, no, just in a mood. I suppose it’s most flattering, of all people to be mistaken for. Forgive my rudeness.”

“You are forgiven. You are protective of your identity, which is understandable. It is worth guarding What do we have if not our own identity, for better or for worse?” 

_Monster,_ Aziraphale thought. _Fiend._

“You like Verdi?” Hannibal asked. 

“I love Verdi.”

“I assume you are going to the Florence Chamber Orchestra’s concert.”

“No, I--I couldn’t get tickets,” Aziraphale admitted, shamefully. His miracles had been limited, and he couldn’t justify expending the funds. “I wasn’t sure I was going to be in Florence--I’m based out of London, see--and by the time I realized I was, the tickets were sold out.”

“Hmm. My usual companion has been ill, and that makes for unpleasant company when she chooses to go out. I’m sure she’d be grateful for the reprieve…”

Maybe he was being unfair to the cannibal. Aziraphale was friends with a demon, after all.

“Oooh, really?” Aziraphale was never good at concealing his desires, and now he couldn’t redact his interest without being unjustly rude again.

“You would like to come, then?” Hannibal said, with only the slightest bit of phrasing as a question.

“Sure...Yes, that sounds lovely.”

“Yes, yes, it does. Would you like to eat before or after? I know just the place.”

“A restaurant?” Aziraphale confirmed, slightly worried.

“Yes. Although I wouldn’t object to having you over--”

“A restaurant sounds great,” Aziraphale said quickly. “Before.” There was nothing worse than sitting through a concert wondering about dinner.

Well, other than going with a cannibal. 

* * *

The restaurant was surprisingly romantic, lit only by candles and tasteful chandeliers. The aroma of roasted chestnuts and lamb filled the air, but Aziraphale smelled oysters and figs above all--the famous aphrodisiacs. He wondered if this was where Hannibal intended to take his sickly woman friend before the plans fell through and simply didn’t feel the need to change the reservation. Aziraphale was glad. He had his old Florentine standbys. This wasn’t one of them, and he was excited to try somewhere new.

“I haven’t heard of this place,” he admitted. 

“You will in a few weeks, but by that time it will be impossible to get a table. Or obscenely difficult, I should say.” Hannibal smoothed his napkin in his lap. “I know we all have favors we may call in, but best to use them elsewhere if we can help it.”

Aziraphale smiled. Indeed, he’d spent too many miracles on restaurant reservations. The Heavenly Host was not pleased. He took a hot roll from the bread basket and hummed. The air-light roll melted in Aziraphale’s mouth. It was easy to push down the uneasy feeling in his gut by heaping his stomach full of delicacies. 

Hannibal helped himself to a roll. “As a rule, I prefer hearty proteins, but these rolls are simply irresistible.” 

Aziraphale’s breath caught. _Heart_ y. Like human hearts? Was this an example of Hannibal’s cheeky little puns, the way he tried to make himself feel extra-extra clever by slipping entendres past people’s radar? But lots of animals had hearts. For example, all of them.

“I have a weakness for sweets, though I do love a good...protein.” Aziraphale’s voice cracked on its sudden dryness. How on Earth could he agree to this? He’d enjoy this meal and this concert, and then nothing else with this man. 

* * *

A friendship formed over dinners and wine, in concert halls and art galleries. It was not dissimilar to what Aziraphale had with Crowley. In fact, it was much more peaceable. Hannibal never drove above the speed limit or texted while walking. Hannibal went out of his way to be polite. Held the door open for people, never let it slam in their face. Let people go ahead of him in line at the market. Aziraphale did not deal with Heaven’s bookkeeping, but he wondered how many little acts of kindness cancelled out, say, one instance of cannibalism. Hannibal was almost perfect if it weren’t for that pesky little secret--and he had a tragic reason for that, so maybe there’d be some leeway…

This was how handsome, charming men got away with murders. Aziraphale shivered when he thought about it, and shivered again when he realized he was complicit, and told himself there was a spark of goodness in all humans, and it was his job to nurture it, by any means necessary…Even if scrumptious venison went down with a little squirming.

Hannibal had the uncanny ability to anesthetize against discomfort, to disarm Aziraphale of what he knew to be fact. Of course Hannibal got away with murder. Murders. He was so damnedly likable. Maybe Aziraphale could be a prolific killer, too, if he tried. No one would ever suspect a comfy-looking bookseller, an Englishman, no less. 

Oh, what a horrid thought! How could his mind even take him down that road? It _was_ a little fun to imagine. He’d kill people who bent book spines...And blasted their popular music from their vehicles...And voted for Brexit…

This Hannibal was a bad influence, Aziraphale decided. Their liaisons had to end. They would bid each other adieu and only run into each other socially, Aziraphale promised himself every time. But--Aziraphale’s thoughts would inevitably cycle--if Hannibal could be such a bad influence on Aziraphale, then Aziraphale could exert an even more positive influence on Hannibal. After all, Aziraphale was the mightier species. It wasn’t always easy to do the right thing. Sometimes--often--it was hard and futile, but he always got a good meal or concert out of it, and could reserve his miracles for more important missions. Their burgeoning friendship was not just a net gain, but a net good. 

This meant, of course, that Aziraphale had to keep turning down constant offers of home-cooked dinners. If Aziraphale had been ignorant of Hannibal’s activities, he’d pull out all the stops to get invited as frequently as possible. But he _knew,_ and he couldn’t _unknow._ He’d had many experiences in his thousands of years on Earth, but he didn’t want the consumption of human flesh to be one of them.

At first, it was easy--a doctor’s appointment, visiting relatives, what have you. But the obvious excuses became more obvious and, worse, repetitious. Hannibal kept offering and Aziraphale couldn’t keep declining--an invitation to Hannibal’s was coveted gold for gourmands, and Aziraphale obviously loved food. 

“I would love to have you over for dinner. Please, let me cook for you.”

“Oh, I...I couldn’t. How about _I_ have _you_ over for dinner _…_ ” Aziraphale offered before he even knew what he was saying. Cook for Hannibal? How? Where? 

“I insist. I asked first, so I will cook first, and then you can return the invitation.”

“Oh, well…”

“You seem to always have an open calendar for dining out,” Hannibal said, with a slight edge of accusation in his voice.

Aziraphale was not great at lying. He was certain Gabriel let him get away with stammering excuses simply because it was not worth the trouble to argue. But this was different. Aziraphale would have to deal with social ramifications if he continued to snub Hannibal, and the Florentine art world had a wrath and a bitchiness mightier than a thousand angels—plus, Aziraphale cared about their opinions _so much more._

“The thing is...Can I ask...I don’t mean to be rude, but would you mind terribly if I requested a vegetarian meal? I’ve been trying to cut back on my meat consumption,” he explained as the waiter cleared away his freshly devoured leg of lamb, “and if anyone can make vegetables taste just as delicious as a roast, I’m sure it’s you.”

* * *

If Aziraphale’s palate had gotten him into this mess, it also kept him out of further trouble, for Hannibal would not dare corrupt Aziraphale’s vegetable dish with any hint of meat. The shiitake mushroom did taste steak-like—as steak-like as a shiitake mushroom could—but very decidedly Not Steak. The hay-smoked mashed potatoes were delectable, imbued with mascarpone and blessed with just a hint of truffle oil. For dessert, Hannibal even prepared caramelized fruit tarts, which Aziraphale ate with relish. The pleasure of dairy made Aziraphale glad he hadn’t specifically requested a vegan meal, but he had the feeling that Hannibal would have blacklisted him. 

Once dinner was over, Aziraphale felt quite at ease. He let Hannibal pour him glass after glass of fine wine. He’d been so _nervous_! There’d been no need for fear, in the end. He was free to sit back and chat with a charming, though admittedly flawed, bon vivant. 

Until the air changed with a familiar entrance. Aziraphale did not need to turn around to know who it was, because who else would it be? Hannibal’s brow furrowed ever so slightly, as if someone used a malapropism, not appeared in his living room out of thin air.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said, rushing next to him, “you have to get out of here—“

“Crowley, this is Hannibal, Hannibal, this is...Crowley,” Aziraphale muttered an embarrassed introduction, trying to stave off any more dramatics. Crowley did love making an entrance.

Hannibal’s brow scrunched just slightly more.

“That man,” Crowley announced, pointing an accusatory finger at the host, “is a murderous cannibal!”

“Well, yes, I know that!”

“You _know_ that? Then why are you hanging out with him?”

Aziraphale bristled. “He knows all the good restaurants.”

“Use Yelp! I invented it for a reason!” 

For his part, Hannibal observed the scene with unruffled amusement, and not a trace of bemusement or confusion that any other human being would have.

“You have no need to worry. Mr. Fell was never in any danger from me. He is quite a charming dining companion.”

“Why, thank you,” Aziraphale blushed.

“‘Why, thank you,’” Crowley mocked. “Yes, very flattering, having the approval of a _cannibal._ ”

“It is, in fact, a high compliment. I happen to be quite picky about my dinner guests.”

“You’re being very rude, Crowley,” Aziraphale said. “Hannibal is very--er--well, I suppose I did lose sight of the whole murder thing.” 

“His name is _Hannibal_ . Have you _ever_ known a Hannibal that you would want to dine with? He eats people and you, what, go to his house for a bottle of Cheval Blanc—oh that actually does sound nice…”

“Sit down, Mr. Crowley. Or is that your first name?” 

“You couldn’t pronounce my first name,” Crowley sneered. “Your human ears would sizzle and your tongue would tie into a knot.” 

“I like to try new languages.”

Crowley said his demonic name, and Hannibal repeated it back perfectly. Crowley’s nose crinkled in defeat.

“Crowley, do sit down, you’re being rude,” Aziraphale implored.

“It’s quite alright. I’m sure we have all, at one time or another, lost our inhibitions out of fear for a friend’s safety. I can certainly attest to that myself.” Hannibal rose and pulled out a chair, which Crowley begrudgingly accepted. “You seem to be endowed with magic. May I ask where it came from?”

“From Hell,” Crowley hissed.

“Well, I suppose the cat’s out of the bag now.” Aziraphale shot a glare at Crowley. He’d had everything under control before the intrusion. “I’m an angel and Crowley’s a demon. We know each other from work.”

“My, my. Would you forgive me if I inquire further as to the nature of your relationship?”

“It isn’t best to discuss specifics,” Aziraphale said diplomatically, assuming Hannibal was asking about the lore, angelology, demonology, theology, and all that. It wasn’t wise to let humans know the details, especially someone like Hannibal, who could use them for nefarious purposes. Plus, Aziraphale didn’t want to admit he wasn’t an expert in front of his brilliant friend—the Lord worked in mysterious ways, and the ways of Heaven tended towards inscrutability.

In actuality, Hannibal was referring to angel/demon fornication, which meant Aziraphale’s answer made him sound unspeakably and deliciously depraved. Hannibal’s eyes glinted.

“I suppose this explains why you have the knowledge of several thousand lifetimes,” Hannibal inclined his head toward Aziraphale, who blushed, “and why you stubbornly refused my dine-in invitations. You knew who I was all this time?”

“Er, yes.” 

“And it’s also why the comparison between the two of us displeased you at first.”

Aziraphale sighed. “Yes.” 

“But not so displeased that you refused to hang out with him,” Crowley interjected.

“Well—er—I thought maybe I could be a good influence…” He felt Crowley’s scrutinizing, disbelieving gaze. “And now, since I can openly represent the Heavenly Host—er— I implore you,” Aziraphale cleared his throat and proclaimed, “I I I as a being of sheer goodness and light, implore you, of the true name Hannibal Lecter, to cease your life of sin at once! I I I I have come with a message of redemption and forgiveness. Renounce your ways, use your abilities for good, and you shall be rewarded. I I I have imploredth thou thusly.”

Aziraphale looked at Crowley for approval. Crowley raised his eyebrows and nodded his head sarcastically. 

“I will consider it,” Hannibal said lightly, in a way that said he wouldn’t. “Now, I would be a fool to cross either of you, so you might as well enjoy drinks, no?” 

They did enjoy the drinks—and good conversation, which only improved with the copious amount of alcohol. They regaled Hannibal with lewd stories about saints and prophets. 

“It’s very biblical, isn’t it, a sinner playing host to an angel and a demon,” Hannibal said. Crowley dismissed the Bible with a wave of his hand.

“Boring book. Not real literature. It’s more like a—a—“”

“Don’t say Dan Brown,” Aziraphale said under his breath.

“Dan Brown! Dan Brown novel. There’s a man who can write.”

Aziraphale and Hannibal wore matching expressions of politely-veiled disdain.

“But it is true that a demon,” Hannibal went on, “proferred the forbidden fruit from the tree of knowledge?”

“Yeah, that was me!” Crowley exclaimed. “I was the snake.”

“Then your comments from earlier are even more hypocritical. What is a demon if not an angel who asked the wrong questions...And what is a cannibal if not a human who dared do the same?”

“Er, hmm…Well, see, an apple’s an apple and a human is...a human.” Crowley did not mean to sound snarky. In his intoxicated state, it actually sounded deep.

“But temptation is temptation, is it not?”

Crowley thought it over. It sounded correct, but the words _specious_ and _spurious_ flickered in his mind like a snake’s tongue.

“My point is, my soul is already damned to hell for curiosity, for the utmost unforgivable crime of wanting knowledge--forbidden knowledge, which I think should be an oxymoron. I’m sure you would agree...To smell a belladonna, to look at the sun, to taste...what must not be tasted. Would an angel taste divine, or deprived? Would a demon’s marinade of vices lend it succulence? My point, Mr. Crowley, is I see the ultimate charcuterie board in front of me, and, charming as you both are, I see no reason to stop.”

It took Crowley and Aziraphale a second to put the words together, and in that second, Hannibal’s hand glinted with something silver and sharp.

They all acted at once, but Crowley and Aziraphale had the edge—just barely. Suddenly sober, they latched onto each other and poof, vanished, back to the safety of Aziraphale’s bookshop.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley growled.

“I know, I know, you don’t have to say it,” Aziraphale said glumly, picking up books that had been jostled off their shelves, “What was I thinking, et cetera.”

“Oh, no, I know what you were thinking. You were thinking with your stomach and your aesthetic sensibility. So that’s why you’ve been blowing me off, then?” 

“Oh, Crowley, I’m so sorry, dear,” Aziraphale said, eyes wide in genuine remorse. He’d been so swept up in his glamorous new friend that he hadn’t realized how little time he had made for Crowley. “Let me make it up to you right now.”

Crowley muttered under his breath. He took a seat as Aziraphale poured him a glass of wine.

“Never a dull moment,” Crowley huffed, taking a performatively unhappy swig. “Would kill for a dull moment.” 

Aziraphale slid into the chair across from Crowley and, when Crowley wasn’t looking, smiled. Crowley would relish the tale of Aziraphale’s near-fatal brush with Hannibal the Cannibal for centuries to come! When the shock wore off. 

“You would have liked him.”

“Like Heaven I would. He’s a fussy, pretentious priss. I might be a demon, but I have standards.” 

“And clearly I don’t,” Aziraphale said amiably, his smile breaking wider. 

“Clearly.” Crowley reached across the table and poured himself more wine, well past the level that etiquette dictated appropriate. Aziraphale grabbed the bottle back and did the same. Until now, he hadn’t realized how uncomfortable he was with Hannibal. The anesthesia had worn off. Besides the whole eating people thing (which was big, of course), the adherence to perfect etiquette was stifling. Usually there was room for a human margin of error, which Aziraphale stayed well within, but with Hannibal, Aziraphale got the impression that the wrong mistake could be fatal.

It was nice to dine with someone who slouched insouciantly in his seat and belched openly at the table. It was as the old saying went—better the devil you know.

  
  



End file.
